


Preludes

by luminescentglow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, ILYAnniversary2018, Sherlolly - Freeform, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 12:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminescentglow/pseuds/luminescentglow
Summary: The presence of a single individual taints each of Molly Hooper's memories. A chilling demise. A triumphant return. Lather, rinse repeat. A broken man cheating death time and time again. A broken man her heart cannot forget.His back has been marred by many scars, his wrists tell the story of many an encounter with steel constraints, but it’s his haunted eyes which show that he, Sherlock Holmes, isn’t as indestructible as he would like others to think.Following the intertwined lives of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes Post- HLV to Post-TFP.





	Preludes

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so here's the thing... Loo's tweet this morning inspired me to get my shit together and finally finish this goddamn story. I've been writing it FOREVER. But what better way to post than on the first anniversary of the "I love you" scene, am I right!? I hope you enjoy!

Molly Hooper fumbles as she attempts to unlock the front door to her flat. She’s forgotten mittens in light of a hasty exit from work and, as a result, her hands are reddening by the minute, an icy numbness spreading inwards from her extremities. Holding on to her key is fast becoming problematic and she swears loudly as it inevitably slips from her clasp to the frost-covered stoop. If she weren’t so focused on escaping the frigid evening air, and frustrated with herself for not accepting Mike’s offer of a ride home, she might notice the fresh set of familiar foot-prints marring the frosty entryway as she bends to retrieve the key. Alas, she does not.

Molly lets out a long sigh of relief as the door swings open, warm air hitting her instantaneously and effectively beckoning her in. It’s been a stressful afternoon in the morgue, but, more importantly, a chaotic end to the year as well. What with Moriarty being broadcast nationally and Sherlock leaving England for God knows how long, all she really wants is to be home so she can drown in her fear and sorrow alone.

Once inside her flat, she immediately makes her way to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. Today is a surprisingly cold day for London, and what better way than a good strong cuppa to reduce the chill of winter and bring warmth back into her limbs. If only it would also enable her to shake off the posthumous message from her psychotic, dead ex-boyfriend (no, not ex-boyfriend, ex-three-date disaster is a much more suitable term) that’s still ringing in her ears.

_Did you miss me?_

No, she certainly does not miss Jim. There is another, though, whom Molly’s not certain she can live without. She wonders if tea can mend her heart that’s slowly breaking at the thought of not seeing her consulting detective for the indeterminate future. _Her_ detective…Molly’s rational side scoffs at the possessive terminology.

Returning to the front entrance, Molly slides off her jacket and removes her boots. Lost in thoughts, while she performs these mundane tasks, the last thing she expects is the booming baritone suddenly resounding throughout her home.

“You’ve made a tremendous mess of the carpet, Molly, tramping straight through to the kitchen like that without first pausing to remove your sodden, outdoor footwear.”

Molly’s initial instinct is to scream from fright, one hand flying to her mouth and the other to her heart; her second to spin madly in the direction of the familiar voice, the hand covering her mouth slipping to the nearest wall in order to keep her upright; and the third to stand stock-still, mouth agape, stuttering and spluttering until she’s sure she must have lost all coherent ability.

“What…how did…but you…Mycroft said…”

“Molly,” he speaks in his deep, patronizing drawl, emphasizing the last syllable of her name.

This only worsens her condition, clouding her mind completely, rendering her utterly speechless. He’s here, in the flesh, sitting on her sofa, in her flat, with his hands steepled underneath his chin, eyes ever observant as he stares.

_Sherlock._

She’d honestly thought she wouldn’t see him again for ages, Mycroft was quite clear she shouldn’t expect him any time soon. In fact, Mycroft broke the news so ominously she had momentarily believed that perhaps she would never see Sherlock again. But he would have said his goodbyes to her if that had been the case. Right?

When the initial shock wears off, it’s quite clear that he’s taken her continued silence as an opportunity to voice more of his critical opinions; he’s currently making his way towards her, spouting words a mile a minute that are nothing if not insulting. But she disregards his tiresome monologue, her heart leaping with joy, and strides across the room to meet him in three large steps. She hesitates for just a second, but then musters the courage to wrap her arms snugly around his upper body.

“Do shut up, you bloody git.” Her cheek is pressed close to his and so she feels the upwards curve of his mouth as he smiles at her name-calling, “I thought I’d lost you.”

She awaits a callous remark or even a firm reprimanding for her behaviour, but, instead, Molly finds herself being pulled even tighter against his tall frame, his nose and lips pressing into the crook of her neck as he more than willingly deepens their embrace.

“Whatever’s happened to you? Is…Jim, erm Moriarty, back?” she questions, pulling away a minuscule amount, just in time to witness him wince before he replaces it with his well-practiced poker face.

“The kettle’s boiled. You should see to it that you get your tea while it’s still piping hot,” he manages to articulate, making sure to over-enunciate the p in piping because he knows how much it annoys her.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to explain what’s been going on,” she murmurs, ignoring his attempt to dissuade her.

He looks away, his eyes flitting to anything but her face. “Given the current condition of your carpet, you were clearly in desperate need of tea. By all means, don’t let me stand in the way of your goal.”

“Sherlock,” she persists, reaching out to grab both of his hands, the small contact sending shivers through her.

“You forgot your mittens again, today…” he replies, deliberately steering the conversation away from her line of questioning.

“I-how…?”

“Your hands are freezing, Molly Hooper, hardly a difficult deduction.”

“Again?” she asks, frown fading, a small smile taking up residence on her face at the detective’s conclusions.

“It’s just something you happen to do on a regular basis. One could say it’s inherently you,” Sherlock speaks, his hands momentarily tightening around the tiny pathologist’s before letting go entirely.

He straightens his back and abruptly turns away from her, his long legs swiftly carrying him to the opposite side of the room. It’s at this abrupt loss of contact that Molly decides to put her foot down. _Infuriating man_ , she thinks, her frustration mounting.

“Give it to me straight, Sherlock. What’s going on?” Molly commands sternly, using much the same voice as she would with some of the hospital’s interns, her smile vanishing when she realizes he intends to ignore her inquiries completely.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine. You’re fine, the Watson’s are fine, I’m fine.” He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” At her use of his full name or profanity (she isn’t sure), Sherlock’s eyebrows rise quite comically.

“This is no laughing matter,” declares Molly, seeing his look, before plowing on with her long pent-up speech, “This past year has been utterly chaotic. You were shot, Sherlock, or have you already deleted that lovely memory from your mind palace?”

“As I’ve previously stated, I’m fine. I _survived_ the gunshot wound, if you recall,” comes his churlish interruption.

“Yes, and how you pulled through we’ll never know. You certainly had your doctors befuddled.”

“Not all my doctors…”

“Hmm?” Molly catches his gaze, which has become softer somehow, before he turns away from her again.

“Tea, please.”

“Oh, alright,” she concedes, “Have it your way. I’ll make you a cuppa, but you’d best let me in on all of the secrets you’ve been hiding afterwards.”

In the end, they wind up watching crap telly and he tells her nothing other than she is safe and hasn’t a thing to worry about. She knows he’s concealing information, that he’s lying to her. But she holds her tongue because, after all they’ve been through, she trusts him. She has to believe that he’s doing it for her protection. She just wishes that he would let her in and allow her to assist him in whatever predicament he’s gotten himself into this time.

After he’s left her flat, Molly goes to bed. Sherlock has returned to London, and her sorrow has abated. But if this night has proven anything, it’s that she has every reason to fear.

* * *

 

It’s been several hours since his scheduled meeting with the press, and the chaotic crowd of journalists and photographers who hovered on his doorstep all day long is now nowhere to be seen. They’d come for the inside scoop on the London Aquarium shooting. He’d had to bite his tongue on several occasions in order that he remain on script.

He’s alone.

Even Mrs. Hudson is gone - visiting some relative or another - and upon exiting states her absence might very well be for a few days. She reminds him he has the entire building to himself wherein he’ll have plenty of quiet time to visit his mind palace and perform any disagreeable experiments to his heart’s content.

Only Sherlock can’t be bothered to set up any laboratory equipment. He finds it impossible to focus long enough to conjure up a hypothesis. And he is determined not to enter his mind palace lest he awake any memories he doesn’t wish to revisit.

He can’t decide what’s worse. His ever present boredom caused by lack of drive, or the deafening silence that permeates 221B. He sits in his chair and stares at the fading embers amidst the fireplace. The room has grown cold as darkness has begun to settle over London. The curtains are drawn and the limited light left outside does little to illuminate the room.

John’s empty chair mocks him.

Sherlock wraps his dressing gown around himself a smidge tighter, hoping that somehow he’ll feel warmth.

He doesn’t. He let Mary Watson down. Wife of his best friend. Mother of his god child.

Because of him, she is gone. She’ll never get to hold her baby close again. She’ll never see Rosie’s first steps, hear her first words, take her to her first day at school. She’ll never get to see her daughter graduate, marry, have children; all those stereotyped benchmarks never seemed important until now.

_Look after Rosie, promise me._

Sherlock blinks back tears.

His back has been marred by many scars, his wrists tell the story of many an encounter with steel constraints, but it’s his haunted eyes which show that he, Sherlock Holmes, isn’t as indestructible as he would like others to think.

 _Mummy worries about you, you know._ \- MH

 _I’m fine._ \- SH

 _I don’t think you are, Sherlock._ \- MH

 _Say what you will, Mycroft._ \- SH

 _Don’t do anything reckless, brother. I’ll be watching._ \- MH

 _You always are._ – SH

Nights pass without sleep. The little rest he does experience is tainted by haunting dreams. The need for a distraction becomes a burning desire within him. His thoughts are whirring, never-ending, blindingly fast. He doesn’t know how to stop them.

He wants them all to stop. Silence would be a blessing but he’s not worthy. He tells himself he deserves this pain.

“You do deserve this, you know.” He looks over from his chair to see James Moriarty grinning at him from the sofa. “Should we watch it again? When you replay it at a slower speed it’s _absolutely obvious_ who is to blame for this… _tragedy_ ,” Moriarty spits, sounding particularly disgusted by the last word.

Sherlock follows Moriarty’s line of sight and suddenly the kitchen morphs into a sea of blue. The eerie luminous glow from multiple large, aquarium tanks paints Sherlock’s face in the otherwise dark room. Mary appears at the far end of the chamber, her gaze focused past him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.” He hears his name fall from her lips on repeat, the uneasiness in her tone never once subsiding.

Moriarty is suddenly behind him, whispering feverishly in his ear, “You never listen, Sherlock. Why’d you never LISTEN?!”

Sherlock turns painfully slow in a pitiful attempt to rebuke Moriarty, but he is gone. In his place, Vivian Norbury grins maniacally. In her hand is a gun and she raises the weapon menacingly until it’s positioned directly towards Sherlock’s heart.

“Sherlock.” Mary’s apprehensive voice comes from behind, imploring him to listen.

As he turns to warn her, _“I’ll burn the heart out of you”_ echoes in the distance.

Sherlock abruptly turns again, and Mary is there, laying before him, blood pouring out of the open wound in her chest.

_I’m sorry for shooting you that one time._

_I think we’re even now._

_I like you, did I ever say?_

“Noooooo!” Sherlock screams, waking himself in the process, gasping for air, face wet with tears.

* * *

 

In the weeks following the death of Molly’s dear friend, the skies open, releasing a deluge of dreary rain, as if they too are mourning. London is inundated with flooding, but no amount of precipitation can transcend the melancholic memories which flow mercilessly through Mary Watson’s patchwork family.

Days come and go. The weeks start to blend together.

Work. Care for Rosie. More work. Head to the shops. Cook. Clean. Work. Care for Rosie. More work.

Just minutes after she gives John’s note to Sherlock, and she’s stared forlornly at her consulting detective’s retreating form for one second too long, she’s not sure what to do. John doesn’t look at her when she relays the story, instead his empty gaze focuses beyond her to the doorway. Something in his expression changes, and he bows his head, almost as if ashamed, before mumbling “I’ve a six hour shift today” and “should you need anything you know my extension”. She simply nods and watches him leave, sees his slumped shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, and knows that she probably looks exactly the same.

The pain Molly saw in Sherlock’s eyes haunts her as she puts Rosie down for a nap. The guilt gnaws away at her. He’s suffering just like the rest of them.

_Anyone but you._

She’s never hurt him like this.

_Anyone._

She doesn’t like it.

Molly picks up her mobile, her thumb tentatively hovering over Sherlock’s name before she defiantly selects his number and begins to formulate a text.

 _I am sorry. Forgive me? -_ M

 _It’s not your fault, Molly. There’s nothing to forgive. -_ SH

She begins to type _“Are you ok”_ before backspacing and erasing each letter with distinct, single taps because of course he’s not ok.

She starts again, wanting to convey her belief in him.

 _It’s not your fault either. -_  M

He doesn’t reply. And she knows it’s because he doesn’t believe her.

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn’t like himself for it. If he twists it enough he can blame Mary for putting him in this position.

_I’m giving you a case Sherlock. Might be the hardest case of your career._

_When I’m gone – if – I’m gone…I need you to do something for me._

_Save John Watson._

_Save him, Sherlock._

_Save him._

But it’s not Mary’s fault, it really isn’t. She instructed, nay suggested, he put himself up against a despicable villain not pulverize his system with drugs. The only person he must blame is himself.

The only person he is hurting is himself.

 _No_ , he thinks. That’s not true. He’s hurting those who care for him as well. Two brown eyes light up in his mind. He can still see the mixed emotions in Molly’s gaze as he exited the ambulance intent on finding Culverton Smith; a hint of desperation and sadness intermingled with anger. Her anxious disposition is all because of his constant tendency to destroy his own life.

He hates what he does to her.

_Your own death is something that happens to everyone else._

_Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it!_

He really should take his own advice. But then again, he’s Sherlock Holmes: the man with nine lives. He hopes to hell he’s got one more left in him. And maybe then he can be the man Molly Hooper deserves.

* * *

 

Molly Hooper has resigned herself to a tepid evening in the morgue with a cup of lukewarm coffee and Amelia Jones (the anatomical skeleton model) - as her only companions this dismal night. Dean Martin plays in the background and she hums along to the current tune as she reflects on the disquietude that is her life.

The presence of a single individual taints each of her memories. A chilling demise. A triumphant return. Lather, rinse repeat. A broken man cheating death time and time again. A broken man her heart cannot forget.

“ _But when you're crying you bring on the rain_ ,” Dean Martin croons and she sighs inwardly.

She’s got nothing to distract herself from the tall, brooding fellow who still consumes her thoughts without even trying.

_“So, stop that sighing, be happy again.”_

It hasn’t all been bad, she muses. In the last few months, from the updates she’s gotten from Mycroft, she’s observed a shift in Sherlock. A lighter air now surrounds him, dispelling the gloomy clouds that once followed him closely. Still, it’s hard to miss the vulnerability in his eyes and the loneliness in his bearing.

_“Keep on smiling, cause when you're smiling the whole world smiles with you.”_

“I miss your smile, Molly.” She jumps so high she’s convinced she’ll fly right through the ceiling.

“Christ, Sherlock, you about scared the life out of me,” she squeals, acutely aware of how shrill her voice is in the quiet stillness of the room. She should be used to his abrupt appearances by now.

“It’s a good thing we’re in a morgue then, isn’t it?” comes his sardonic reply from the darkened doorway and she can’t help but crack a slight smile at his witty response.

_“When you're laughing, when you're laughing, the sun comes shining through.”_

He’s not usually one for morbid humor (she can’t begin to count the number of times he’s scathingly told her _“Don’t make jokes, Molly”_ ), so she knows he’s trying to put her at ease.

“What d’you mean, Sherlock?” she sounds tired even to her own ears. Their friendship has been strained ever since those three minuscule words. The fact that she hasn’t seen him in person since he left for rehab doesn’t help one bit.

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath, almost as if preparing himself to deliver some long-winded deduction before deciding against it. Instead, he hands her a sealed letter. Molly can see her name written in his long -flowing, elegant script.

She looks up at him confused.

“Take it, Molly.”

She stretches out her hand, fingers curling around the top of the envelope. He inhales deeply once more and then lets go, fully entrusting his letter to her.

“Please…read it. And if you can find it in yourself to forgive me, you know where to find me.”

And on that dramatic note, he spins away from her, coat billowing out around him as he bursts out of the mortuary doors.

She looks at the worn envelope in her hands and wonders. Tentatively, she opens it and finds an even more battered and torn piece of A4 folded inside. She extricates the note and begins to read.

_Molly Hooper,_

_In light of recent events, the subject of which I cannot reveal, Mycroft has secured a mission in Eastern Europe for me rather than allow me to suffer incarceration. As I am unlikely to return, I shall endeavour to convey my well-wishes to you via the written word._

A suicide mission. So, her nagging suspicions at the time had been correct. He hadn’t planned on coming home.

She chokes back a sob as the reality of it all sinks in. She does her best to push through her swirling emotions and continues on.

_Due to my current circumstances, I have begun to reevaluate certain aspects of my life. And, Molly, I have come to the conclusion that my life has been all the better for your presence in it. To this day, I still see you in my mind palace as you appeared that fateful day I was shot. I am alive because of you, Molly Hooper. You saw me, and you have saved me._

_I do not think I will make it off this plane alive. In fact, I mean not to. I’m sorry to leave you this way, but perhaps it is for the best. You deserve far more than I could ever dream to give you. Please be happy, Molly, for me._

_I’ve instructed the Watsons, Mary in particular, to keep an eye on you. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to contact them._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

The tears she’s held in check finally flow, and she can’t see she’s crying so hard.

She’s not sure how long she cries for, but when her eyes are red rimmed and puffy, with no moisture left to disperse, she finds herself searching for tissues.

It’s at this point another, much smaller, letter drops to the floor. It must have been nestled within the envelope. The date states it was written the night before. Molly tentatively brings it into view and takes a sharp inhale as she reads the address.

_My Dearest Molly,_

_A short while ago, I informed John Watson that, by sacrificing herself for me, Mary conferred a value on my life. I told him then that it was a currency I did not know how to spend. Following my sister’s experimentation, I have come to certain realizations. The most important being that I would like to spend it, that is - my life, with you._

_Lovingly,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Molly can’t help but truly smile for what feels like the first time in years, maybe ever. He’s an impossible man, and life with him will never be simple, but none of that matters. She’d choose him over anything and everything. When she’s had a chance to process these revelations, and clear her mind, Molly wastes no time in conveying her answer.

 _There’s nothing to forgive, Sherlock Holmes._ – M

 _You know where to find me._ -SH

* * *

 

Sherlock knows the exact moment Molly enters the flat. He is attuned to her light gait and quiet footsteps. He’s quick to hand-off Rosie to her father, and turns just in time to meet her gaze from the entrance way. The smile he sees upon her face lights up every corner of 221B and he hopes his expression mirrors her joy.

His return smile really must say something profound, because John abruptly stands and coughs (something about Mrs. Hudson wanting to see Rosie), before awkwardly making his way downstairs.

Sherlock could care less.

The only thing he cares about in this moment is the amazing woman standing in his doorway.

“Come here,” tumbles out of his mouth of its own accord.

As if on cue, Molly Hooper barrels across the room in record time and Sherlock Holmes finds his arms wrapping around her pulling her small frame flush against him. He nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck and breathes in deeply.

He’s never felt this grounded.

He can’t believe that she is his.

Sherlock pulls back ever so slightly, his hands running up her arms, until they’re fully cradling her face. His forehead touches hers. The tension palpable the longer he waits. But, before he connects their lips, he whispers…

“I love you, Molly Hooper. And I always will.”


End file.
